Yanky was silent. The world was spinning in circles. And what could he say? The Rebbe was right
"I’ve got a story for you,” said Marianne Bing, sitting down next to Marta, her hostess, with a tall glass of diced kiwi in her hand. “You know we were in Israel for Chanukah? So we’d signed up for one of those menorah tours in Jerusalem, where they take you around to see the old neighborhoods by the light of the Chanukah candles. We wanted the children to experience it.”
Marianne took a dainty bite of kiwi. “It was six in the evening,” she continued, “and we were running around all over Nachlaot, where we were supposed to meet up with our group, but we couldn’t find them. We were a bit late, I guess. So we called the organizer, but by the time we found out where they were and caught up with them, we’d already missed the lighting and the whole explanation. The kids were so disappointed… they’d wanted to see how they light those special oil lamps. And then, all of a sudden Ronnie said to me, ‘Look, there’s somebody who’s about to light his menorah. Let’s go ask him if we can watch.’ So we approached this person, and it was a lovely young man, tying a black sash around his suit jacket and preparing wicks for the oil lamps. And guess who it was!”
“Well, that’s easy,” said Marta, laughing. “There’s only one young man I know who lives in Nachlaot. It was Yonatan?”
“You guessed it! And it was such a beautiful scene, watching him chant the brachot and light the menorah in a glass box at his front gate, in that picturesque little alley, with the Jerusalem stone and the arched windows. Ronnie was so taken by it, he said if we ever make aliyah, he would buy a house in Nachlaot, too.”
“Really?” Marta was surprised. Ronnie Bing had his feet very much on the ground. He wasn’t the type to get all euphoric about picturesque little alleyways in Jerusalem.
“Really. He was that taken by it. You have no idea, Marta, how lovely it was, those old stone houses with the menorahs glowing in the windows, or by the front gates. And you know, your son could be a tour guide. You should have seen how nicely he explained everything to our children. He let them feel the wicks and smell the oil, and then we listened while he said the brachot and watched him light.”
“He’s planning to live in that neighborhood after his wedding, too,” Marta said. “We’ve already bought a house for him there. He’ll have it renovated, and they’ll move in. That’s what they wanted.”
“Oh, how nice! That was a good choice. There are modern, high-rise buildings going up everywhere in Jerusalem, but you won’t find an atmosphere like that outside Nachlaot,” Marianne gushed, and dipped her little spoon deep in the glass for the last bits of kiwi.
“Yaakov Roll thinks we made a brilliant move, buying that place for Yonatan,” Sandy said to his wife a few hours later, after all the guests at their charity evening had gone home. They’d invited 20 couples, served a stylish buffet supper, and secured 20 pledges to help support needy families. “He thinks it’s ideal, buying a place like that for half the price of an apartment in one of the new projects. I showed him the plans, and he said he’d encourage his daughter to think in that direction, too. You know he has a daughter in Israel, right?”
“Interesting,” said Marta, ignoring the question. “The Bings were waxing poetic about the neighborhood, too.”
“And so were other friends that I showed the pictures to,” said Sandy. “I’m starting to think it was a good decision, and not just b’dieved. True, the new, high-end projects were more my style, but Nachalot has a lot to offer. Who are you calling?”
Marta had picked up the cordless phone as he spoke and was energetically tapping at it. “Yonatan,” she said. “I want you to tell him what you just told me. It’ll make him happy.”
